


A Hard Lesson

by JantoJones



Series: Stand-alone  (The 1st 100) [24]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 04:33:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6408997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoJones/pseuds/JantoJones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya is used as a teaching aid in a torture class</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lesson

Illya didn't need to open his eyes to know he was in serious trouble yet again. He just hoped his partner had managed to get their informant clear and to safety, otherwise his self-sacrifice would have been in vain. Who would rescue him if Napoleon hadn't managed to get away? From what he could tell, Illya was not going to be able to free himself.

With his eyes still closed, Illya tested his bonds. He could tell he was shackled face down, in a spread-eagled position, on a tilted surface. The steel chains holding him had him stretched to an almost unbearable point; pulling just about every muscle. What disturbed him more was the fact he could feel the air against most of his skin and cold metal against his groin. He was naked. Illya finally opened his eyes and verified what he had already postulated. Twisting his head round, he realised he was in a lot more trouble than he'd first thought.

He was in some sort of classroom and seated at the desks were eight men and women. They were all studying him intently, making him feel like a bug on a microscope slide. Behind them was an older man who was obviously teaching the group. To one side of the room, two THRUSH guards were stood, with their weapons raised. It didn't take a genius to work out that Illya was going to be an integral part of whatever was about to be taught.

"Welcome Mr Kuryakin," the older man said, with a sinister smile. "I do hope you're comfortable."

Illya rolled his eyes in a bored manner. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, still a little groggy from whatever had knocked him out. "I hadn't realised I would be attending a class today. I didn't bring any preparatory notes."

The teacher came and stood next to the captured agent.

"I am Hugo Frost," he snarled. "You may call me Sir."

"пойти и трахнуть себя. _(go fuck yourself)_ "

Frost turned back to his students. He had no idea what Kuryakin had just said, but he could imagine.

"You are all extremely privileged," he began. "This is the famous Illya Kuryakin. You have all read his dossier and know him to be one of U.N.C.L.E.'s top agents. In previous interrogations, he has proved to be stubborn and resilient. This is what will make him a perfect teaching aid for you. I will be able to demonstrate many techniques of persuasion before he succumbs to his inevitable death."

Illya lived with fear on a daily basis, but was usually able to keep it in check. Anyone who claimed they weren't afraid in this job was either lying or psychopathic. Being used as a teaching aid in a torture lesson took him beyond fear. Illya could just about accept torture as part of a mission, but this was something he hadn't signed up for. The worst part was knowing that there was no objective to it. There would be no end until he either died or rescue came. He could only hope that the rescue would arrive soon.

"This is a cat o' nine tails," Frost said, as he showed it implement to the class. "It is so called because of the nine braided leather tails. If you look closely, you will see each tail has a knot in the end and each knot has a little metal shard embedded in it. It is all designed to inflict as much pain as possible. We won't spend too much time with this, as I know Mr Kuryakin can endure the cat for quite some considerable time."

Even though he was expecting it, the first sting still shocked Illya and he grunted with the pain. Frost started off with a demonstration of how to correctly aim the cat.

"You hold the handle tightly in one hand and the tails loosely in the other. The handle hand gives you your momentum, while the other guides the direction."

To prove his point, Frost landed twenty further strikes to the middle of Illya's back; not bothering to hold back on the intensity. He took a perverse pleasure in watching the pale skin turn to a vivid red. The Russian attempted to remain quiet, but was unable to prevent small whimpers from escaping. As the metal tips of each tail hit his back, they eventually began to tear at the flesh. It didn't take long for the blood to start appearing.

"Now," Frost continued. "It's easy to just randomly aim for the back, but there are two areas which are nice and sensitive. The first is between the shoulder blades, about two inches below the nape of the neck. The second is the lower back, just above the buttocks."

The cat o' nine tails demonstration took twenty minutes and left Illya gasping and shaking. His flesh was on fire and his muscles burned from his useless struggle. When it was over, Frost called the guards over and instructed them to turn Kuryakin over. As soon as the shackles were removed, Illya fought against them to get free, but they had the advantage over him. They slammed him hard against the steel surface, causing an explosion of white hot pain to radiate across his shredded back. The sensation completely overwhelmed him and darkness descended.

Unfortunately for Illya, he returned to wakefulness within a matter of minutes. What he saw when he opened his eyes again made his earlier fears look frivolous. His captor was setting up some very industrial looking electrical equipment. Illya's blood seemed to freeze and he became even more aware of his, now exposed, lower extremities. The pain that was coming was going to make the flogging feel like a tickle. Many years earlier, Illya had been tortured by the application of electricity to his testicles. It was not an experience he ever wished to repeat.

"The best place to electrocute a person is the genitals," Frost explained to his fascinated class. "This is true for both male and female subjects."

Turning back to Illya, he touched contacts to Illya's testicles. The Russian screamed, long and loud; the current making him jerk and spasm, as much as the chains would allow.

"You get such a wonderful response with this method," Frost said, almost to himself. "Often, the threat of this is enough to break a prisoner. I'm going to allow you all to try this, so please come up one by one, but make sure to keep away from the head."

Enduring torture at the hands of amateurs was somehow worse. The students tried various areas of Illya's body without any real method. The underarms and the soles of his feet were popular, but they always came back to his balls. He screamed throughout, silently begging for the darkness to return. Thirty-five minutes later, his wish was granted. While he was out, Frost explained to the students the need for finesse and control.

"Anyone can cause pain," he told them. "But, it takes skill to know just how much a man can take. You don't want your subject to have a heart attack before he gives up his secrets. You must also learn to control your temper. Mr Kuryakin here is renowned throughout the hierarchy for goading his torturers and causing them to lose control. That is when mistakes can happen. Mistakes can lead to a premature death or an escape."

A moan from behind let him know that his captive was awakening. He waited until Illya was aware enough to understand him before he spoke again.

"You shall be pleased to know that we have finished with electrics," he informed the stricken man. "The next lesson is on the subject knives."

Illya watched cagily as Frost picked up a relatively small knife and showed to the, all too eager, students.

"Part of this course is for you to fully understand human anatomy," he explained the class. "You will get a better idea of that once Mr Kuryakin has expired and you observe his autopsy."

Illya found himself wishing for that moment to come sooner rather than later, then chastised himself for giving in so soon. He'd endured much longer sessions than this and was certain a rescue would be on its way. All he had to do was hold on to the belief his partner was on his way.

"Knowing where and how deep to cut the flesh is a skill you should all learn," Frost went on. "You want to avoid arteries, as this will cause your victim to exsanguinate very rapidly. A slow bleed is ideal to weaken and disorientate, but can also be treated fairly easily so your subject can be questioned again."

Without warning he suddenly slashed Illya across the right side of his chest.

"Блядь! _(Fuck!)_ " Illya gasped and struggled to keep his breathing under control.

Blood instantly blossomed from the wound, but not enough to be of immediate concern.

"As you can see, it is quite painful and will remain so until treated," Frost continued. "The wound is actually quite superficial, and were Mr Kuryakin to survive, it would leave no scar. It can also be quite fun to apply salt to such cuts. This has most effect when your subject is weakened."

Breathing through his nose, Illya desperately tried to stave off the panic attack which was threatening to consume him. He fought against the chains that held him, knowing that there was absolutely no chance of escape. The humiliation he felt at being naked and tormented was heightened by the sound of laughter. The students found it incredibly amusing that Kuryakin was even trying to free himself. Surely the man would find it easier just to submit. The knife flashed again and left a shallow gash just above the Russian's left hip. Illya cried out.

Having not yet recovered from being electrocuted, the pain from the cuts was too much, and he once again fell into blessed darkness. Before he became completely insensible, Illya was vaguely aware of a commotion in the room, guns being fired and lots of shouting.

He awoke to find himself being loaded onto a helicopter. Inside the aircraft he was greeted by the worried yet happy face of his partner, who was reassuring him that he was going to be ok.

"Napoleon," Illya whispered. "I quit."

**********************************************************************************

Only four hours later, Illya had argued himself a discharge from medical, with strict instructions to take three days leave. The doctor was not happy at him leaving with his back in the state it was, but agreed only on Illya's promise to allow a nurse to visit him twice daily to check on him. Ignoring the orders completely, Kuryakin went to the office he shared with Napoleon and immediately got to work on his report. He didn't say anything to his partner, who was seated at his own desk.

"Did you mean it?" Napoleon asked, eventually.

"Mean what?" responded Illya, without looking up.

"That you quit."

The Russian glanced up at Napoleon and, for a long time, said nothing.

"Yes," he finally replied. "But not yet."

"After what you went through today, I wouldn't blame you."

Illya shrugged. "We are trained to endure and overcome torture, though I won't pretend that I am fine, because I'm not."

Napoleon was surprised. It was a rare thing for Illya to admit to that sort of thing. He would whinge and moan constantly about minor ailments, but would always claim to be fine when he was half dead.

"I shall take myself out of the field for a few days," Illya continued. "Maybe catch up on some paperwork."

Solo knew full well that the doctors would have ordered medical leave, but didn't push the issue. The fact Illya was voluntarily offering to do light duties showed Napoleon just how vulnerable his partner was feeling. Any other time, he would throw himself back into work no matter what medical ordered him to do. Of course, Solo could pull rank and order Illya to go home, but he wouldn't. He knew Illya, and he knew the man would go stir crazy stuck at home.

"How about dinner, on me?" He offered, knowing how much a quiet meal with a friend meant to the Russian. "Do you feel up to it?"

Illya smiled, grateful for a partner who knew how to read him.

"That would be very agreeable Napoleon. Thank you."

Maybe a couple of hours of good conversation would be enough to offset the nightmares he knew he would be having that night, though he very much doubted it.

"Promise one thing though."

"Anything, Tovarisch."

"I do not wish to discuss what happened today, I am not ready," Illya admitted. "Promise me you won't bring it up."

"Whatever you need," Napoleon assured. "You know that."


	2. Worry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon's side of the story.

It was against Napoleon's instinct, but he had to leave Illya behind. The informant they'd liberated possessed information which could hinder THRUSH operations worldwide. There'd been a very real danger that they could have been prevented from getting out, so Illya had opted to stem the tide while Napoleon and the informant escaped. The agents had agreed a meeting point and a timeframe. If Illya wasn't out in fifteen minutes, Napoleon would continue on to the waiting helicopter.

Watching the time tick away, Napoleon silently willed for his communicator to signal Illya's escape. The sound never came, so reluctantly, he indicted for his charge to follow him.

"I hope you're worth it," he muttered to the man.

By the time they reached the helicopter, snow was starting to fall. The pilot, Jim Higgins, assured him that it was safe to fly for now and that they would get to HQ with no problems. As they left the ground, Napoleon looked for any sign of his partner. He could see Thrushmen heading towards their location, but Illya was conspicuous by his absence.

"Will we be able to come straight back here when we drop off Mr Manford here?"

"The snow is set to get heavier," Higgins told him. "We won't be able to return until it stops. I will remain on stand-by."

Napoleon thanked the pilot before taking out his communicator to contact Mr Waverly. He asked his boss to organise a rescue party form the nearby field office. There were four permanent Section 2 agents there, plus half a dozen Section 3s.

"Very well Mr Solo," the Old Man agreed. "I had hoped this operation would go without a hitch, but I suppose these things are often inevitable. It will take a little while formulate a plan of attack, but we shall go after your partner as soon as possible."

"Thank you Sir."

"Once you have delivered your package back here, and your pilot deems it safe" Waverly continued. "You may fly back and bring Mr Kuryakin home."

Napoleon thanked Mr Waverly again and tucked his communicator away. All he knew about the facility he had left Illya in, was that it was an educational establishment. The pre-mission report he had read, told of a school for the elite of THRUSH to learn strategy and persuasion techniques. Napoleon had sneered at the term 'persuasion techniques'. The fancy words didn't detract from their meaning. It was just another way of saying torture. Solo had absolutely no doubt that the THRUSH instructors would be overjoyed to have Illya Kuryakin in their grasp. The Russian was known throughout that organisation and had managed to become a pain in the backside for the upper echelons.

It took twenty five minutes to fly to back to HQ, by which time the snow had really set in. Higgins promised faithfully to call Napoleon the second it was safe to fly. The agent himself led Mr Manford to Waverly's office. He introduced the two men to each other, requested a section 3 agent to guard the informant, and then headed to the commissary for coffee. Along the way, he called into medical and asked for a doctor to be ready to go when he was.

The commissary was fairly empty and the atmosphere subdued. The news of Kuryakin's capture had spread through the building like wildfire. No-one said a word to Napoleon. Every agent knew that no amount of cold comfort would bring a man from his funk until his partner was safe. Solo hated the feeling of impotence. Illya was probably suffering at that very moment, while he was stuck at HQ. He knew that help would be on its way to his friend as soon as it could be organised, but he wanted to be there himself. After what seemed like hours later, but was in reality about forty-five minutes, Napoleon got the summons he was waiting for. He sprinted to the helicopter, where he was met by the medic.

About fifteen minutes from their destination, Napoleon was contacted by one of the field agents, informing him that they were about to storm the school.

"Okay," he acknowledged. "Keep me informed."

After a further ten minutes, he was contacted again.

"We have the building secured Mr Solo," Agent Myers told him. "All THRUSH members are either dead or captured."

"What about Illya?" Napoleon asked impatiently. He didn't really care about the enemy at that moment.

"I hope you have a doctor with you, because Mr Kuryakin has been tortured."

Solo had expected that. "How bad?"

"Couldn't say for sure," Myers replied. "He's currently unconscious and, from the looks of it, they've been using him to demonstrate different methods."

"We'll be there in five minutes. Can you move him and meet us? I want to get him in the air as quickly as possible."

"No problem. We also need to find him some clothes."

Shutting of the communicator, Napoleon looked over at the medic. The doctor gave him, what he hoped, was a reassuring smile. He'd treated Kuryakin many times and was always impressed by the man's resilience and powers of recuperation. Napoleon was feeling furious. Why was it always Illya who suffered worst at the hands of THRUSH? The treacherous voice in the back of his head told him it was because of the Russian's habit of throwing himself in front of trouble. Solo couldn't help but smile a little at that thought. Illya really did take his duty very seriously, and would always put the safety of others first. His habit of goading his captors, so that they would concentrate their energies on just him, was a constant annoyance to the American.

The helicopter had barely touched down when Napoleon saw the field agents running out with the limp form of his partner. He was incredibly touched to realise that, not a single one of them, was wearing a jacket. The garments had all been used to cover Illya. As he was loaded into the helicopter, Illya's eyes opened. He blearily looked into the face of his worried friend.

"Don't worry Tovarisch," Solo was saying. "You're going to be ok now."

"Napoleon," Illya whispered. "I quit."

*********************************************************************************

Once back at HQ, Napoleon went with Illya to medical; not that anyone could stop him. As soon as it was determined that he would suffer no permanent physical damage, Illya persuaded Napoleon to go back to work. With great reluctance, Solo headed to his office to begin the reports; one for the extraction of Mr Manford, and one for the rescue of Agent I. N. Kuryakin.

Napoleon wasn't surprised when Illya entered their shared office a few hours later. The man looked tired and unwell, but was aware that he would probably prefer for Napoleon not to mention this. The senior agent was in no doubt that Illya should be on medical leave, but knew that it wouldn't happen. When it became clear that Illya wasn't going to speak, he asked him if he really was going to quit. The answer surprised him. Normally, the Russian would dismiss such words as delirium, but this time he didn't; telling Napoleon that he had meant it, but wouldn't go yet.

Solo was surprised further when Illya admitted to not feeling fine and that he was taking himself off field duty for a while. This was a very worrying turn of events for Napoleon and he needed to tread carefully; baby steps would be needed.

"How about dinner, on me?" He offered. "Do you feel up to it?"

The smile Illya gave him was sad but full of gratitude.

"That would be very agreeable Napoleon. Thank you."

Napoleon didn't know what was going to happen, but he was determined not to let Illya be eaten up by this latest horror. He would talk to Mr Waverly and make sure that his partner had all the time he needed to regain his confidence.


	3. A Trouble Shared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya faces up to what happened.

Two weeks had passed since Illya's ordeal in the THRUSH torture class. Despite being passed as medically fit, he still hadn't ventured out of HQ, other than to go home. Napoleon had told him that Mr Waverly was giving him four weeks to decide whether he wanted to leave the field permanently or not. Illya had no wish to leave the field and the thought of losing his partnership with Napoleon scared him more than he thought possible. It was because of this that Illya took himself to a place he usually avoided. He knocked on the psychiatrist's door and entered.

Dr Francis was reading the case file from Illya's rescue and, in spite of the horrific details, he had still been surprised when the agent requested to see him. He stood up from his desk and invited him to sit in one of the two comfortable chairs in the office.

"Thank you for seeing me," Illya said, as he sat down.

"Thank you for coming to me Illya," Dr Francis replied. "Please don't worry about any time constraints as I've cleared by schedule for you."

"That suggests you think I have a lot to say."

"I've had sessions with you before," the doctor told him, with a slight smile. "You may not say a lot, but it can take you a while to say it."

Illya returned the smile. "I don't know how to start. I'm not usually one for talking about myself."

"Okay, then let me start," Dr Francis retrieved the file from the desk and opened it to the page detailing Illya's version of events. "You were tortured recently, and you say here that there was 'no mission motive'. What did you mean by that?"

Illya closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This was going to be harder than he'd imagined. Talking things out was something he usually did after a good drinking session with Napoleon. Doing it stone cold sober was terrifying. He had to fight with himself just to stay seated, let alone in the office.

"They didn't want information," he finally disclosed. "I was simply a demonstration tool for a sadistic teacher. During other torture sessions, the need to retain whatever information I have, gives me the willpower to endure. This time there was nothing to fight for."

"Are you saying that you had no hope?"

"I had hope," Illya countered. "I knew that Napoleon would mount, or at least arrange, a rescue. I also knew I would be dead before it arrived."

"I see," the doctor muttered, as he twisted his pen around in his hands. "You had already decided you were dead, so the fact that you aren't, has left you feeling confused."

Illya thought about that for a moment. That idea hadn't occurred to him, but it made sense. His mind kept telling him that he must have died, but his body hadn't caught on to that fact yet. If he could just persuade his mind that he was alive and well, he could maybe get on with his job.

"I've kept myself out of the field for two weeks. I have to decide which direction my future lies."

"The Illya Kuryakin I know would be itching to get back out."

"So would the one I know," Illya agreed.

"You're afraid." Dr Francis stated, bluntly and to the point.

Anger flared within Illya. He wasn't angry at the doctor, but at himself. He was Illya Nikovitch Kuryakin. He'd survived the last war despite losing his family and home. He had left Russia to make a life in Europe, on his own before coming to America. He had made a home and friends in the land of his supposed enemies. He was acquainted with fear.

"Yes, I'm afraid," Illya yelled. "Fear is always with me, but I've never let it defeat me before."

By this point, the Russian was on his feet and pacing. Dr Francis let him get on. The walls were sound-proofed, so patients were free to express themselves in whatever way they needed. However, this was the first time he'd seen Kuryakin getting animated, and saw it as a good sign. The man usually held back, only telling the doctor what he thought he needed to hear.

"Is there anything else going on which could be stopping you from moving on Illya?"

Kuryakin paced for a little longer then suddenly stopped.

"This may sound stupid, but this one fear seems to have let loose a host of others."

"Tell me about them."

Illya sat down again, but perched himself right on the edge of the chair.

"As Number two, Section two, one of my duties is to keep Napoleon safe. Not just as my partner, but as the CEA. What if I make a mistake and he gets killed? Also, my skills as an explosives expert are good, but what happens on the day the bomb maker is more skilled than I? Will the day come when the CIA finally decide they've had enough of the 'Damn Commie' swanning around their country? Will the KGB decide that it's time for me to go back to Russia? Will Mr Waverly decide that I am no longer required and send me back?"

"When it rains, it pours," the doctor said, when the agent's outpouring stopped.

"Is that anything like 'Beda nikogda ne prikhodit odna'?"

"I'm sorry, my Russian is lacking."

"It means 'trouble never comes alone'," Illya translated.

"That's pretty much it," Dr Francis confirmed. "Illya, have you spoken to Napoleon about any of these fears?"

"Only the CIA and KGB ones."

"With your permission, I'd like to invite him into this session. I think you would both benefit from it."

Illya's first instinct was to say no. After a little thought, he decided it could be a good idea. There were few people he trusted in this world, and his partner was one of them. He'd noticed that Napoleon had been very careful around him recently. Their usual banter and acerbic barbs had diminished, and Illya missed it.

"I think you could be right doctor."

Napoleon immediately dropped everything when Dr Francis called him. He never thought he'd see the day when Illya Kuryakin saw a psychiatrist of his own volition. That fact alone gave him a deep sense of foreboding. Was he about to lose his partner? He'd had many partners before Illya, but none of them took to his way of doing things. Even though he and Illya had very different methods, they fit together like puzzle pieces. Napoleon knew the partnership would be broken the day Mr Waverly joined the choir invisible, but he'd been relying on Illya being by his side until then.

Arriving at the doctor's office, Napoleon paused outside to compose himself. It wouldn't do to expose his own fears. Upon entering, he was greeted by Dr Francis, but Illya said nothing; he merely offered a half-hearted smile.

"Thank you for agreeing to join this session Napoleon," the doctor said, as he offered him the other comfy chair while he pulled his desk chair around. "Illya has given me leave to tell you what we have been discussing."

Solo looked to Kuryakin and raised an eyebrow in question. Illya replied by raising both eyebrows in a look of 'sorry I dragged you into all this'. Napoleon listened patiently, though with increasing disquiet, as Dr Francis told him of Illya's worries.

"First off Illya, you're my partner, not my bodyguard," Napoleon stated, when the doctor had finished.

"You're also the CEA," Illya answered, matter-of-factly. "It is the duty of every agent to protect you."

"I don't know if you're aware of this Tovarisch," Solo stage-whispered. "But, you're next in command after me."

He continued in his normal voice. "For all I joke about being senior, I see us as equal. As partner's we protect each other. I failed to do that two weeks ago."

Illya suddenly realised that Napoleon was also having a hard time dealing with what had happened. He'd been aware of Solo's efforts not to cause him any distress, but he'd been too busy feeling sorry for himself to notice Napoleon's upset.

"The mission came first," he assured the American. "As it always should. How many THRUSH operations were scuppered as a result?"

"Four. Thousands of lives would have been lost."

"Then my ordeal did mean something," Illya mumbled, almost to himself. "My capture meant that you could get the informant away."

Dr Francis smiled inwardly. He'd always been amazed at Kuryakin's psychological tolerance of THRUSH's more physical persuasions; learning early that the man could withstand almost anything, so long as there was a purpose. The torture may not have saved all those people directly, but the events which led to it, had done. That would be enough to settle the Russian's thoughts on the matter.

"As for the rest of your fears," Napoleon continued, deciding that getting maudlin would serve neither of them. "The only reason Waverly would send you away is if you turned traitor."

"Which won't happen," Illya stated sharply.

"Exactly," Solo agreed. "When it comes to the CIA and KGB, the only assurance I can offer is that they'll have to take on the whole of U.N.C.L.E. if and when they try anything."

"And the day the bomb maker is better than me?"

"Then I will give you the best damned funeral anyone could wish for."

Illya grinned broadly. "I shall hold you to that."

Dr Francis couldn't help but laugh. These men lived with death constantly, so gallows humour was only to be expected.

"I suggest you take on a minor mission or two," he told his original patient. "If they go well, then make your decision."

"My decision is made," Illya responded. "I'm not ready to leave the field."

"Great," Napoleon enthused. "I haven't got the patience to break in a new partner. I concur with the good doctor though, you should ease yourself back with a couple of milk runs."

Illya nodded, surprised to find that all his anxiousness had lessened. No doubt he would find himself in the clutches of another maniacal sadist in the not too distant future, but he would deal with that when it happened. For now, he felt happy to know that a lot of people would continue their lives, unaware that there were people paying a high price for their security.


End file.
